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♡︎ ── Before his departure

Christian Buddenbrook x Theater costume designer, secret gf!Reader

CW - MDNI : Detailed descriptions of consensual sexual acts, including kissing, touching, oral stimulation, penetration, and orgasm. Descriptions of characters being undressed and exposed. Themes of separation, longing, and bittersweet intimacy that may evoke feelings of sadness or vulnerability.

WC : 5513 = 32645 characters

Requested by @shymkc18

You were humming softly, three pins clamped at the corner of your lips, while your fingers danced over the fabric of the ordered dress. Smoothing a fold, pinning a hem, stepping back to gauge the line, then returning to correct—it was automatic, fluid like a habit etched into your skin. The workshop oscillated between meticulous order and creative chaos: stacks of fabric scraps piled like forgotten grimoires, a mannequin leaning like a silent accomplice, a tailor's chalk abandoned on the edge of the table, and that persistent smell of powder, starch, and glue heated by the lamp. The yellowish halo of the light caressed the worn parquet floor, while the neighboring theater, on the other side of the wall, exhaled its last sighs of the evening.

The front door opened without a sound, closed softly, and a draft of cold air made the hanging muslin shiver. You didn't hear it right away. It was the voice, deep and measured, that made you jump:

— Good evening.

The pins escaped from your lips, tinkling on your apron like broken pearls. You nearly leaped from your stool, one hand pressed to your chest.

— You scared me half to death! How did you get in?

Christian stood there, smiling, hat in hand, his hair still beaded with the autumn mist. He nodded toward the lock.

— You hadn't locked it.

You sighed, half-annoyed, half-relieved, picking up the pins with a swift gesture.

— And you didn't knock.

— I knew you'd still be humming, he replied with disarming simplicity.

You opened your mouth to retort, but something in his demeanor stopped you short. It wasn't his usual calm, tinged with mischief or a playful spark that lightened everything. He closed the door with the tips of his fingers, placed his hat then his coat on the back of the chair with an almost ritual precision, as if the order of objects could anchor his wavering mind. When he turned to you, his shoulders were relaxed, but his gaze evaded, seeking an anchor point in the cluttered room.

— What's wrong? you asked, your voice softening despite yourself, as you set down your tools.

He didn't evade, direct as a blade.

— I'm leaving tomorrow morning, at dawn.

The word seeped into the confined air, banal and heavy like a sentence. You froze, a botched seam crossing your mind: why here, in the workshop, surrounded by your scissors and spools that seemed to spy on everything? You blinked to chase away the rising bitterness, and straightened up, hands on hips.

— You're telling me tonight? Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Tonight.

— Tonight, he repeated in a neutral voice. It's all I could do.

He expected neither consolation nor reproach. He had come as one attends to the essential of a day: to deliver the raw truth. Without a word, you opened your arms. He crossed the distance in two sober strides, and you were already enveloping him. His chest was cold at first contact, imbued with the damp night, but it warmed quickly against you. You nestled your forehead in the crook of his neck; he wrapped his arms around your waist, holding with a quiet firmness, without seeking to fill the silence.

— Stay like this for a moment, you whispered.

— That's why I came, he replied simply.

His breathing stumbled for an instant, then synced with yours. His hands slid slowly over your shoulder blades, a precise, soothing gesture. The workshop around you seemed to fold in on itself, erasing its disorder.

— You could have told me sooner, you said finally, because it was true and it burned.

— Yes, he admitted without detour. I procrastinated. By putting it off, you end up on the eve. And here I am.

You pulled back slightly to scrutinize him. The light caught the shadows of fatigue under his eyes, but his mouth kept that frank line, without artifice. You placed your hands on his cheeks, cool from the street.

— Where are you going, exactly, in your head? you asked.

— To London, he replied with a brief, joyless laugh. And toward you, he added lower. Both are true.

No grand speeches. You nodded, gently drew him toward the worn armchair near the cutting table—the one where you sometimes dozed between orders. He sat without resisting. You curled against him, sideways on his lap, your cheek against the cotton of his shirt. He held you tighter, a sincere embrace, without pretense. Your throat tightened suddenly; tears welled up, sharp and silent. He didn't chase them away, letting you cry like a storm on an unshakable roof.

— I have no poetic words, he murmured into your hair. I'm leaving. I miss you already. I'll come back as soon as possible. No more complicated than that.

— It's enough, you replied. Stay here.

His hand rose to your nape, fingers splayed, diffusing a simple warmth. You found yourself counting his breaths. He noticed and began counting too, in a low voice: one, two, three. A smile brushed your lips despite yourself. He smiled back, forehead to forehead. You stayed like that, immobile in suspended time—as good as it could be, and it was immense.

— What are you taking? you asked, to anchor the conversation in the concrete.

— The essentials: shirts, a notebook, and the way you're holding me right now.

— That won't fit in a suitcase.

— It'll fit on my shoulders.

You believed him. He placed a slow kiss on your temple, then another, lower, like stitches reinforcing a fragile seam. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing closer. He let you, both docile and solid. His hands had found your waist and anchored there, as if they had always belonged.

— You're so calm, you noted, still amazed.

— I'm with you, he said. When I'm with you, I can say things and make them stand.

You closed your eyes. The workshop creaked softly, the rain pattered the window with insistent gentleness. He inhaled deeply, close by.

— Look at me, he asked.

You obeyed. In his eyes shone a direct clarity, without shadow or detour. He gazed at you like one fixes on a precious landmark: with the desire to retain without hindering.

— I want you here, now, he said simply. Not tomorrow. Now.

The world seemed to stabilize under your feet. You grabbed him by the nape. He drew you against him, lifting you slightly so your bodies aligned without hitch. The heat swelled, vivid and imperative. He lowered his head, his fingers clenched in the hollow of your back, and he kissed you—in one surge, hot, whole.

Christian kissed you as if mapping your soul through this contact, his mouth warm and insistent, his tongue brushing yours in a slow, almost reverential ballet. Your hands slid into his hair, pulling lightly to draw him closer, while his fingers, firm on your back, descended in a possessive caress, tracing the curves of your spine like following a pattern.

He broke the kiss for an instant, just enough for his eyes to plunge into yours, dark and charged with raw, unadorned desire. “I want you whole,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough like a taut thread. His hands then rose, impatient, to the hem of your top—this simple blouse, stained with chalk and forgotten pins, bearing the imprint of your day.

With a hasty, almost feverish gesture, he pulled it over your head, the fabric brushing your skin in a soft rustle before falling to the floor like an unnecessary peel. The cool air of the workshop grazed your bare skin, but it was his gaze that made you shiver: he contemplated you like an artisan before a rare work, his eyes filled with mute, almost sacred admiration.

Your breasts, freed, rose under his gaze, and he placed his hands on them with a delicacy that contrasted with the urgency of his previous gestures. “Magnificent,” he breathed, like a prayer. His palms, warm and calloused from days handling books or pens, enveloped your curves with infinite tenderness, his thumbs tracing slow circles around your nipples, making them harden under the caress.

He leaned down, placing a light kiss in the valley between your breasts, then ascended, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin like placing stitches to reinforce a fragile bond. “Every part of you is perfect,” he murmured against your flesh, his voice vibrating against your sternum. He took one breast in his hand, lifting it slightly to better admire it, before covering it with kisses—first soft, exploratory, then more insistent, his tongue tracing wet patterns that sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You arched your back despite yourself, your hands gripping the armrest of the worn armchair, the wood creaking under the pressure. Christian descended lower, his mouth capturing a nipple, sucking gently at first, then with growing fervor, his teeth brushing the skin just enough to make you moan. “I could spend the night adoring you like this,” he said, lifting his head for a moment, his lips glistening, his eyes shining with an inner fire.

He caressed the other breast in the same way, alternating between his hands and mouth, venerating every inch as if it were a precious discovery, a treasure he feared losing at dawn.

His hands then slid along your sides, tracing the contours of your hips, but he always returned to your breasts, as if magnetized, massaging them with a precision that melted you. You felt his arousal against you, hard and pressing through the fabric of his pants, but he rushed nothing; it was your body he celebrated, your curves he explored with an almost torturous patience.

“You're so soft, so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice broken by desire, while his fingers lightly pinched a nipple, drawing a sigh from your lips. You ran a hand through his hair, guiding, encouraging, and he responded by intensifying his caresses, his mouth voracious, hot, leaving invisible marks of his adoration.

The armchair creaked under your movements, your legs wrapped around him to keep him close, your nails lightly scratching his back through his shirt. The air grew heavy with a moist heat, mingled with the smell of the rain outside and the impregnated fabrics. Christian finally lifted his head, his lips reddened, to capture yours again in a wilder kiss, his hands still on your breasts, kneading them with an urgency that promised more.

“I don't want to leave without taking this with me,” he murmured against your mouth, his breath panting mingling with yours. You felt your body respond, a heat spreading through you, and you drew him harder against you.

The kiss deepened further, a whirlwind of heat and desire that erased the outlines of the workshop, leaving only your bodies pressed together in the creaking armchair. Christian devoured you with restrained hunger, his tongue dancing with yours in a rhythm that made your blood pulse stronger, faster.

His hands, still anchored on your breasts, kneaded them with persistent adoration, his thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples, sending bolts of pleasure that echoed to the pit of your stomach. You moaned against his mouth, your fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the tension rising in him, hard and relentless against your thighs. The air thickened, charged with your panting breaths, the musky scent of your skins mingling with that of the fabrics and the rain outside.

Suddenly, Christian broke the kiss, his lips reddened and swollen, his eyes darkened by a fire that made you shiver. “Not here,” he murmured in a hoarse, breathless voice, as if the words themselves were an effort. “It'll be better in your bed. I want you whole, without discomfort.” Before you could respond, he lifted you in one motion, his arms sliding under your thighs and back with a certain ease, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a small surprised cry, half-laughing, half-excited.

He carried you like that, crossing the workshop with a sure step, avoiding the piles of fabric scraps and the leaning mannequin as if he knew every corner by heart. The lamp cast elongated shadows on the walls, dancing to the rhythm of his strides, and you felt your heart pounding against his chest, the excitement making you moist and impatient.

The bed—this simple berth nestled in a corner of your room in the adjoining space, where you sometimes collapsed after nights of hard work, surrounded by crumpled voiles and worn pillows—appeared like a haven. Christian set you down on it with unexpected gentleness, your back sinking into the soft mattress, the cool sheet contrasting with the heat of your bare skin. You looked at him, lying there, breath short, while he straightened at the foot of the bed. His eyes swept over you with a possessive, admiring gaze, as if rediscovering you for the first time.

Without a word, he grabbed the hem of his shirt, yanking it off in a hasty gesture, the buttons nearly popping under the pressure. The fabric slid from his shoulders, revealing his bare chest, sculpted by years of bourgeois life but marked by an inner tension that drew firm lines on his chest and stomach. His hair, still damp from the mist, fell in disheveled strands on his forehead, and a fine sheen of sweat already glistened on his skin, accentuating the contours of his muscles.

You squirmed on the bed, a delicious discomfort coursing through you—this excitement that made your thighs tremble, your lower belly tight with a lancinating need. Your breasts, still sensitive from his previous caresses, rose with your ragged breathing, and you pressed your legs together to soothe the rising heat, in vain. Christian caught your gaze, a half-smile brushing his lips, as if savoring your impatience.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and vibrating, as he approached the bed. He knelt at the edge, his hands slowly ascending along your legs, parting your thighs with a firm gentleness that made you gasp. “So beautiful, so responsive… I could spend hours adoring you like this.” His fingers traced light patterns on the inside of your thighs, ascending toward your center but stopping just short, leaving you panting.

He leaned over you, his bare chest brushing your breasts, and resumed his worship with renewed intensity. His lips found your breasts again, covering them with wet kisses, his tongue swirling around one nipple before sucking it with an avidity that made you arch your back. “Perfect,” he breathed against your skin, his free hand enveloping the other breast, massaging it with a precision that sent waves of pleasure radiating through your whole body.

He alternated between tenderness and fervor, nibbling lightly to make you moan, then soothing with a soft lick of his tongue, like an artisan polishing a precious work. Your hands gripped his bare shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin, the muscles rolling under your palms as he moved. The discomfort of your arousal grew, making you squirm more, your hips lifting involuntarily toward him, begging for more.

Christian lifted his head for a moment, his eyes plunging into yours, shining with a mix of desire and deep affection. “I can feel how much you want me,” he said, his voice a deep purr that vibrated against your sternum. His hands then descended, sliding over your stomach, tracing the curves of your hips with an almost sacred reverence. “Your body… it speaks to me, it tells me everything.” He brushed the edge of your skirt, his skillful fingers removing it with contained haste, sliding it down your legs to leave you bare before him. You arched, the cool air grazing your exposed skin, accentuating the moisture between your thighs, which was simply covered by panties.

He placed his lips on your stomach, descending in a trail of slow, adoring kisses, venerating every inch as if it were a map to memorize before his departure. “So soft here,” he murmured against your navel, his tongue tracing a lazy circle there. Then lower, on the curve of your hips, his hands parting your legs for better access, his kisses becoming more intimate, more insistent.

You moaned his name, your fingers tangled in his hair, guiding without really forcing, while the excitement consumed you, making you feverish and impatient. The bed creaked under your combined weights when he partially lay on you, his chest pressed against yours, his mouth returning to your breasts for one last homage, sucking, licking, pinching just enough to make you see stars.

Christian straightened slightly, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you shiver from head to toe. His bare chest glistened faintly under the dim light of the bedroom lamp, his muscles contracting with his heavy breathing.

Your hands, still trembling from his previous caresses, brushed his flat stomach, descending toward his belt buckle, but he stopped you with a gentle gesture, his fingers interlacing with yours. “Let me do it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the tension-charged air. He leaned forward, his lips brushing your neck, your shoulder, descending in a trail of wet kisses along your arm, as if he wanted to engrave every parcel of your skin into his memory before dawn.

His hands, warm and assured, slid along your hips, catching the elastic of your panties—this simple piece of fabric that suddenly seemed an unbearable barrier. He pulled it down slowly, almost ritually, his fingers tracing lines of fire on the inside of your thighs as the fabric slid over your knees, then your ankles, landing on the floor in a discreet rustle. The cool air of the room grazed your exposed intimacy, accentuating the moisture that had accumulated there, making you squirm more on the crumpled sheets.

You were naked before him now, vulnerable and offered, and his gaze swept over you with raw admiration, his pupils dilated by desire. “Look at you,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, as if awestruck. “So open, so ready for me… Your body is a work of art, and I'm the only one who can appreciate it as it deserves.”

He placed a hand on your stomach, leaving it there for a moment, feeling the shivers coursing through your skin, before ascending toward your breasts for one last homage, enveloping them, massaging them with a tenderness that contrasted with the hunger in his eyes. Then, in a firm but soft tone, he murmured against your ear: “Turn over on your stomach, my dear. Head in the pillows.” His voice had that natural authority, that of a man accustomed to navigating inner storms, but tempered by a deep affection that made you obey without hesitation.

You turned slowly, positioning yourself on your stomach, the cool sheets against your belly and sensitive breasts. You adjusted the pillows under your head, nestling comfortably, arms folded to support your forehead, your legs slightly parted to relieve the growing pressure between your thighs. The mattress sank under your weight, and you felt the workshop around you—the forgotten fabric scraps, the rain still drumming outside—melt into a blurry background, leaving only this bed as a sanctuary.

Behind you, you heard him rise, the dull sound of his belt unbuckling, followed by the rustle of his pants sliding down his legs. He groaned softly, a primal and guttural sound, when his eyes landed on your offered buttocks, round and inviting under the golden light. “God, those curves…” he muttered to himself, his voice broken by excitement.

You imagined him, naked now, his underwear tossed to the floor with the rest, his erection proud and hard, throbbing in the air. He positioned himself behind you, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your legs, dominating without crushing. His hand, large and warm, rested on your buttocks, kneading them with a possessive firmness that made you moan into the pillows. He kneaded slowly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, parting slightly for better admiration, all while masturbating with his other hand—a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if preparing himself, containing himself to prolong the moment.

“So perfect,” he growled, his voice lower, more animal, while his thumbs traced circles on your skin, descending toward the hollow of your back before ascending. Each pressure sent waves of pleasure that echoed to your center, accentuating your arousal, making you arch your hips despite yourself to ask for more. He alternated between soft and firm caresses, venerating your buttocks as he had your breasts—incessant worship, murmured in panting compliments: “So soft… So firm under my hands… You drive me crazy.” His hot breath grazed your back, and you felt the tip of his erection brush the inside of your thighs, slick with his own desire, teasing without penetrating, prolonging the exquisite torture.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of caresses and muffled groans, he positioned himself closer, guiding his erection with a trembling hand toward your entrance. He brushed first, testing, lubricating with the moisture that had accumulated between your intimate lips, then pushed slowly, inch by inch, into your sex, filling you with a precision that made you gasp.

“Oh, yes…” he murmured, his voice breaking into a sigh of pure relief when he was fully inside you, his hips pressed against your buttocks. The sensation was intense, stretching and perfect, your body welcoming him as if made for him. He stayed still for a moment, his hands still on your buttocks, squeezing them to anchor the connection, letting your breaths synchronize in this moment of fullness. Then, he began to move, a slow rhythm at first, deep, each withdrawal and thrust a homage to your body, his groans mingling with your muffled moans in the pillows.

The room vanished completely, leaving only the heat of your united bodies, the bed creaking under your movements, and this union that defied time and the imminent distance. He accelerated gradually, his hands sliding over your hips to guide you, holding you in place while he took you with growing fervor, murmuring your name like a litany, his adoration transforming into a devouring passion that carried you both toward ecstasy.

Christian thrust deeper into you, a low groan escaping his throat while his hips rolled against yours with deliberate slowness, as if savoring every millimeter of this union. The sensation of his erection filling you completely was exquisite, a warm and pulsing stretch that sent waves of pleasure radiating from your center to every extremity of your body.

Your hands gripped the crumpled sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric as if to anchor the reality of this moment, while your face buried deeper into the pillows, muffling your moans into a hushed murmur. The room, with its dancing shadows cast by the solitary lamp, seemed to pulse to the rhythm of your bodies: the discreet creak of the bed, the rustle of forgotten clothes on the floor, and outside, the rain drumming on the windows like a distant, sensual accompaniment.

His hands, still on your buttocks, kneaded them with possessive tenderness, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your moist skin, sometimes descending along your back to make you arch further. “You're so tight, so hot around me,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, broken by the effort to contain himself, his hot breath grazing your back like an additional caress. He leaned forward, his bare chest pressing against your back, his sweat-glistening skin sticking to yours in a moist and electric intimacy.

His lips found the curve of your shoulder, placing wet kisses there, his tongue tracing a languorous path along your spine, descending to the hollow of your back where he nibbled gently, drawing a shiver that coursed through you like a shock. Each movement of his hips was calculated, deep and rhythmic, a back-and-forth that melted you from the inside, your arousal spiraling upward, liquid and burning, making you hypersensitive to every friction, every pulsation.

You felt his desire grow with yours, his groans becoming deeper, more animal, while he accelerated imperceptibly, his hands sliding over your hips to hold you in place, guiding you in this intimate dance. “Let go,” he whispered against your nape, his voice a dark velvet that vibrated against your skin, his teeth brushing your earlobe before gently capturing it between his lips.

You obeyed, your hips lifting to meet his, a perfect synchronism that intensified everything: the hot friction, the fluid glide, the pressure building in the pit of your stomach like a storm ready to break. His fingers descended lower, brushing where your bodies joined, teasing your swollen clitoris with expert precision, slow and insistent circles that made you gasp, your body contracting around him in response. “Yes, like that… You're magnificent when you let yourself be carried away,” he breathed, his own breathing becoming ragged, his control cracking under the assault of shared pleasure.

The rhythm intensified, his thrusts becoming more urgent, deeper, each withdrawal leaving you empty and begging, each return filling you with a force that made you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Your moans rose in crescendo, muffled in the pillows but vibrating in the air, mingling with his hoarse groans, his adoring murmurs: “Your body… it calls to me, it holds me… I never want to leave.”

The heat between you became unbearable, a fusion of sweat, breaths, and sensations that erased the outside world. You felt the orgasm rising in you like an inexorable wave, your muscles contracting around him, squeezing him tighter, drawing him deeper. “Christian…” you moaned, your voice broken, and it was like a trigger: he groaned your name in response, his hips slapping against yours one last time, his body tensing like a bow.

The orgasm hit you together, a shared burst that coursed through you like liquid fire, your body convulsing around him in intense spasms, waves of pure pleasure radiating from your center to your curled toes. You cried out into the pillows, tears beading at the corners of your eyes under the intensity, while he, buried in you, released in a primal groan, his hands squeezing your hips as if to anchor himself to you, his pulsations syncing with yours in mutual ecstasy.

The world reduced to this: your trembling bodies, united in this sensory explosion, the heat of his seed filling you, prolonging the waves that shook you. He collapsed gently onto your back, his weight a comfort rather than a burden, his lips finding your neck to place breathless kisses, murmuring incoherent words—fragments of love, regret, promise—while your panting breaths settled into each other.

Slowly, the whirlwind subsided, giving way to a languid sweetness, a residual warmth enveloping your entwined bodies. Christian withdrew with infinite delicacy, a final shiver coursing through you both, then he rolled you onto your side to take you in his arms, nestling you against his still-panting chest. “Shh… stay here,” he murmured, his voice softened by blissful exhaustion, one hand stroking your sweat-damp hair, the other tracing soothing patterns on your back.

You snuggled against him, your head on his chest, listening to the beats of his heart slowing gradually, a reassuring rhythm that chased away the shadows of the imminent departure. He pulled the sheets over you both, creating a warm cocoon against the workshop's cool, and placed a kiss on your forehead, lingering, as if to seal this moment. “You're everything to me,” he whispered, his fingers interlaced with yours, gently massaging your joints as if to erase any residual tension.

Your eyelids were heavy, your body languid in this sensual afterglow, but you lifted your head to look at him, your lips brushing his jaw. He smiled faintly, that simple and straight line that comforted you, and held you tighter, his hands exploring your body no longer with desire, but with protective tenderness—sliding over your shoulders, your stomach, your thighs, to check that all was well, to prolong the contact. “Rest a bit,” he said softly, his voice a balm, while he adjusted a pillow under your head and brushed a strand from your face.

The room around regained life slowly: the tick-tock of a distant clock, the rain diminishing, but for now, nothing mattered but this post-orgasm intimacy, this onset of calm where he pampered you like a precious relic, murmuring promises of return, his lips brushing yours in a chaste, soothing kiss. You stayed like that, entwined, time suspended in this bubble of warmth and shared vulnerability, pushing back the dawn and its inevitable separation.

Time stretched in this bubble of after-pleasure, your bodies still entwined under the crumpled sheets, the sweat cooling slowly on your skins while Christian's breathing became more regular against your ear. He still held you tight against him, one lazy hand tracing invisible patterns on your flank, the other buried in your hair, as if seeking to imprint every sensation into his memory.

The room, with its familiar disorder—the scattered fabric scraps, the forgotten clothes on the floor, the lamp casting an amber glow on the walls—seemed suspended, ignoring the inexorably approaching dawn. You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his chest against your back, the calm beat of his heart resonating like a lullaby, but a shadow already loomed: the departure, that heavy word that had initiated all this.

Christian moved first, a discreet sigh escaping his lips while he placed a light kiss on your bare shoulder. “I have to go,” he murmured, his voice still hoarse with exhaustion and regret, as if the words themselves weighed on his chest. You felt his body detach from yours with an almost painful slowness, his hands sliding one last time along your curves—your hips, your stomach, your breasts—in a farewell caress, a silent homage to what you had just shared.

He sat up on the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight, and you watched him through half-closed lashes, your languid body still refusing to move. Naked in the dim light, he was beautiful in his vulnerability: the muscles of his back contracting slightly as he gathered his scattered clothes from the floor, his disheveled hair falling on his forehead, a fine scar invisible to the naked eye but one you knew by heart marking his shoulder.

He put on his underwear first, then his pants, with precise but slow gestures, as if delaying every second. You propped yourself up on an elbow, the sheets slipping over your still-sensitive breasts, and watched him button his shirt, his skillful fingers—the same fingers that had adored you with such fervor—closing the buttons one by one.

“Don't leave yet,” you murmured, your voice soft, almost pleading, even though you knew it was inevitable. He turned to you, a melancholic smile stretching his lips, and approached the bed to place a hand on your cheek. “If I stay one more minute, I'll never leave,” he replied, his eyes plunging into yours with that direct clarity that had always disarmed you. He leaned down to brush your lips with a chaste, lingering kiss, his lips warm and familiar, before straightening reluctantly.

You got up in turn, quickly slipping on your blouse and panties, ignoring the rest to follow him to the workshop door. The cool night air seeped through the cracks, carrying the smell of the lingering mist outside, and you shivered slightly, not from cold, but from the imminence of separation. Christian grabbed his coat and hat from the chair, putting them on with ritual precision, as if recomposing himself before facing the outside world.

At the door, he stopped, hand on the handle, and turned to you one last time. His eyes, darkened by fatigue and emotion, swept over you as if to memorize you whole—your tousled hair, your lips still reddened from his kisses, your body marked by his caresses. “I'll come back,” he said simply, his voice firm despite the crack in it.

Then, he drew you against him in a fluid gesture, his arms enveloping you one last time, his chest pressed against yours in an embrace that summed up everything: the passion, the tenderness, the regret. He lowered his head, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss, a final surge where his tongue brushed yours with contained urgency, his hands ascending your back to hold you tighter, as if he wanted to fuse your bodies one ultimate second.

The kiss stretched, hot and wet, a mute goodbye that brought a lump to your throat, your fingers gripping his shirt to hold him a little longer. When he finally detached, his lips still brushing yours, he murmured against your mouth: “I love you.” The words were simple, direct, without artifice, but they vibrated in you like a promise etched in stone.

You nodded, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, and let him open the door. The cold draft rushed in, carrying the smell of the wet street, and Christian vanished into the night, his silhouette fading into the mist. You closed the door softly, heart tight, the workshop, the room suddenly empty and silent, but imbued with his memory—of your united bodies, his adoring murmurs, this love that defied distance.

The movie was sooo cool thx for the request!!!

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